"My god, Chris. You look like shit."

I lay on the couch video chatting with Audrey Apple, the only person in this world who knew my secret. She was almost ten years my junior, new to the world of entertainment but already a far bigger star than I was. She had a huge YouTube following but had made her mainstream success by winning the American Music Challenge, which was how I met her.

With our close relationship, the rumors flew like fireworks. Audrey didn't do anything to dispel gossip that we were sleeping together—she thought it would help dissolve her innocent image as a young YouTube star. I didn't much care because it meant people wouldn't be asking questions about my sexuality, not to mention it only strengthened my brand as a bad boy country rock star.

"I saw the videos." Looking disappointed, she picked up Lady, her cat, and stroked her gently in her lap. "Why you gotta act like that, Chris? Your rep is taking a hit, you know? I know that's not who you are."

"I don't need another lecture, Audrey," I said. "I don't give a damn about my rep."

"Obviously, you do. Otherwise you'd come out of the closet."

I felt a twinge of annoyance. "Don't say that."

"Don't say what? You're in the closet, Chris."

"I'm not in the fucking closet. I just... I hate that phrase." I hated the idea that I was hiding from something, even though that was exactly what I was doing. Audrey gave me a why are you trying to bullshit me look.

"You're completely ridiculous, you know that?" she said. "I feel sorry for you."

"Don't. It's my problem, I did it to myself."

"You can choose to not do this to yourself, you know? Accept yourself. Others will. I do. You can be a gay man—"

"Audrey, I don't wanna hear none of that 'woke' bullshit right now, okay?" I gritted my teeth, hating that I'd let myself blurt that out at her.

She blinked at me, her eyes wide and offended.

"Alright. I'm out. Shame on me for trying to help a friend out."

"Dammit, Audrey, I just..."

"I'mma go spend some time with people who aren't afraid to be real. You can go suck a dick. In fact, I think you really should."

"Audrey..."

My phone went black. Call disconnected. I groaned and sent her an apology text before tossing my phone aside. It clattered across the floor, disappearing somewhere under the furniture. I sat up and looked around my cavernous living room, too big for the amount of decor I had. Too big for one man. Most of the rooms in my house were completely empty. My own bedroom was just a king-sized bed and a couple guitars. I needed a fucking interior decorator, but honestly, what was the point? I was alone, anyway.

It was my own damn fault. I didn't deserve a friend like Audrey. I didn't deserve anyone. Even if a man were to fall right into my lap, what good would that do me?

Well, for one, it would mean I could get laid.

I closed my eyes, and it felt like the couch was swallowing me up like quicksand.

That was a pretty fucking big thing. I was the kind of guy that men wanted to be and girls wanted to be with. That was my schtick, and it'd packed arenas with thousands of fans and filled my bank account with millions of dollars. I was an American sex symbol who'd never had sex. In reality, I'd been living my life like a damn monk. I'd brought groupies back to my hotel room and pretended like I was too wasted to fuck them. I'd avoided relationships and no one really questioned it because I was Chris Barker Stevens. I didn't need to be in a relationship—I had all the women I could ever ask for.

What a joke.

I rolled off the couch and dragged my ass to the studio room, which was the one room in my house that was fully decorated and built up. I had a full recording studio in there, with a sound booth and monitoring station so that I didn't need to leave the house if I wanted to put together a track. Most of my guitars were in there, too. It was my sanctuary, sound-proofed and quiet.

I pulled down one of my favorite guitars, a 1972 Gibson Les Paul Deluxe, and brought it and a 500-watt amp out to my living room. I wasn't about sound-proofed and quiet right now. I didn't want sanctuary, I needed therapy. I wanted to blow my windows out.

The amp buzzed as I hooked in the guitar. I wrapped my fingers around its neck, feeling the silky-smooth finish of the wood, polished by years of use. My body tensed in anticipation, the same way it did when I was about to swing a punch. I raised my arm, pick in hand, and slammed it down to the strings. This wasn't the country-pop twang I played for the radio. This was heavy shit. Gritty shit. Cut-into-my-fucking-soul shit. With the gash in my right palm, playing hurt to hell—but that was okay. Physical pain, I could take.

I jumped up on the couch and tossed my head to the rhythm, machine-gunning out a run of chunky power chords before breaking into a piercing solo. My hand felt hot and I was pretty sure I was bleeding, but damn it felt good to play. Throughout my life, music had been the one place I could always escape to. When Dad passed, my guitar was there for me. It was there for me when I realized I liked looking at the boys at school more than the girls. It was there when Mom caught me holding hands with the boy down the street. Music never made me want to hide. Playing was the closest I could ever come to feeling truly myself.

From the corner of my eye, I was suddenly aware that I was no longer alone in the room. I whirled around, and the guitar cable twisted around my legs and sent me tumbling to the floor. I managed to keep the guitar held up in the air and out of harm’s way as I hit the ground.

I clambered back to my feet. The man stood in the doorway, clad in a dress shirt and slacks with an eyepatch covering his left eye, a duffel bag in one hand and a cooler in the other. My mind raced. A burglar wouldn't wear business casual, would they? What the fuck was with the cooler? Was he going to steal my kidneys?

His clothes were well tailored around his figure, and it was obvious that he was rippling with muscle beneath the fabric. Was he some kind of mafia hitman? My mind went back to Jersey Shore. Shit. Had I fucked with the wrong douchebag?

I wasn't going to wait to find out. For him to get through my security system and break into my house, he obviously meant business. I realized I was holding my precious guitar up like a baseball bat, and put it down onto the couch before I made any regretful mistakes. My heart was pounding—but it felt good. Fuck it, if I was going to go down fighting a bad guy, I was good with that. At least it'd be an interesting death.

I charged at him, shouting at the top of my lungs. He didn't even flinch.

That's not good.

I swung.

Air. It was like he’d disappeared from in front of me. He'd stepped to my right. I swung again. He slipped that one, too. Then, in one sudden motion, his arm trapped mine. I was by no means a small man, but he swung me like a rag doll and dropped me to the ground. His knee jammed into my back, my arms locked firmly behind me. He leaned forward, putting more weight on me and pressing my cheek against the hardwood. I could feel his breath on my ear.

"Calm down," he said.

"Who the fuck are you?" I grunted. "What do you want?"

"My name's Sylus Synn. I'm with Synn Services. I'm your new bodyguard."

As things began to click in my rattled skull, I relaxed. "Sylus Synn...?"

"That's right. Are you calm?"

"What kind of name is Sylus Synn? I didn't know I'd be getting a porn star. Ah! Ah, ah, ah..."

His knee pressed harder into my back for a second before he yanked me up to my feet.

"Sorry about that. I hope I didn't hurt you," he said, with a slight smirk.

Sylus Synn was... He was fucking hot.

His single eye was a piercing blue, and the way he looked at me made me feel like he could penetrate into my mind and read my thoughts. His expression had the no-nonsense terseness of ex-military, and he had the body to match. I already knew firsthand that he could pin me down and take me however he wanted. My eyes scanned him, flicking across the not-so-subtle bulge of his package. Goddamn. The guy had to be fucking hung.

Jesus.

What the fuck was I thinking? My cock was dangerously close to getting hard, and I'd somehow lost myself in a fantasy. Anger bubbled inside of me, anger at myself. How could I lose control like that?

"I'm fine," I said, trying to calm my racing heart. "At least I know you're capable." And not a pushover like Big Mike—bless his oversized heart. "But couldn't you have just used the doorbell like a normal person?"

"I did. You didn't answer. I was out at the front gate for a while. Even called your cell phone."

I got on my hands and knees to locate my cell beneath the chair. Sure enough, there were several missed calls and a text from Audrey. I opened it, and a photo of her flicking me off filled the screen.

"So... you broke into the security gate," I said.

"It wasn't very hard. I'll call in someone to upgrade it."

"And... you broke into the house."

"That wasn't hard, either. You left the front door unlocked."

I cringed. "Oh. Fuck." I feigned a yawn. "Um. Okay. Well, it was, uh, great meeting you, Sylus. Thanks for the unforgettable introduction and see you later, I guess. You know the way out." I scooped a bottle of Macallan up from the coffee table. When I uncorked it, I realized that the bandage on my hand was soaked with blood. "Shit," I muttered.

"You're bleeding."

"Yeah, no shit."

I took a swig from the bottle and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Sylus went over to the duffel bag sitting on the ground and pulled out a green canvas pack. "Take a seat," he said. "Please." He unzipped the pack—it was a first-aid kit.

"I'm good," I said. "Just get the fuck out, alright? We've met, thank you, everything's great. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Take a seat," he repeated, turning his head to look at me. His eye pierced me like a fucking cobalt laser, and I felt myself silently obeying his command without even realizing it. I plonked down on the couch and took another swallow of whiskey. I realized that my hands were shaking.

Sylus took a knee in front of me and set the first-aid kit on the floor. I caught a whiff of his aftershave and felt a surge of hungry desire tremble through my entire body. Fuck. I raised the bottle to my lips, only to feel it being tugged out of my hand.

"Enough of that," he said.

"What the hell, man?"

"You don't need it. Relax." He grabbed my wrist and tugged my hand down. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and removed my bloody bandage.

"Jesus. It's a fucking bandage. I could do this myself."

He cleaned the sutured wound with an antiseptic wipe and then re-wrapped my hand. My heart continued to pound against my wishes.

"I'm here because your management wants me to make sure you're taken care of. So, that's what I'm gonna do. My job." He looked me in the eye, and my heart actually fucking skipped a beat. I cursed myself for having such a reaction. I'd gotten good at controlling my urges, so why the fuck was I having such a tough time right now?

"I'm not going anywhere, sorry to say," Sylus went on. "My instructions are that I'm to board here. So, where would you like me to sleep?"

Dammit, I didn't think that Denny would actually get me a full-time babysitter. "You think I care? I don't want you here. I don't need you."

"Fair enough. I'll sleep in your bed then." He zipped up the first-aid kit and stood up.

"Yo, fuck you," I growled. I felt my temper rise, that same damn anger fueled from the shame and embarrassment of my arousal.

He shot me a smirk that made me want to sock him right in his gorgeous blue eye. Of course, he'd probably just dodge it and pin me again.

"I'll set up here. Where's the kitchen at?"

"Through there, down the hall," I grunted.

I watched as he picked up his cooler and strode out of the room like he owned the place.

"You like deer meat?" he called, and I heard the fridge open. Make yourself at home, pal. "I shot a deer today, brought some steak over. Think of it as a peace offering."

"Vegetarian," I said. “Shouldn’t you have known that?” I grabbed the bottle of whiskey and slunk off to my room like a wounded animal.

Fuck. This was the last thing I needed. A bodyguard who got me fucking hot, and he was going to be living here. That damn body of his kept flashing through my mind. The way it moved beneath his clothing. His thick, veined wrists and forearms peeking out from under his cuffs. A delicious collarbone behind an open shirt.

The rage of desire burned hotter than ever. It was terrible. It felt like I was a starving man being teased with a piece of food I could never reach. My body ached for contact. I needed release so badly. Beating off just wasn’t cutting it. I couldn't even bring myself to look at porn, not without hating myself for it. My body could have visceral adverse reactions when I was confronted with my desires. Bursts of anger, mostly. Anger and shame. I just couldn't accept this part of me. I'd never been allowed to.

I gulped down a mouthful of whiskey and felt the hot comfort of intoxication creep through my body.

Having this guy around was going to make my life hell. So, I had no problem causing him some trouble in return.